The days are beautiful The days are beautiful. I know what days are. The other is weather. I know what weather is. The days are beautiful. Things are incidental. Someone is weeping. I weep for the incidental. The days are beautiful. Where is tomorrow? Everyone will weep. Tomorrow was yesterday. The days are beautiful. Tomorrow was yesterday. Today is weather. The sound of the weather Is everyone weeping. Everyone is incidental. Everyone weeps. The tears of today Will put out tomorrow. The rain is ashes. The days are beautiful. The rain falls down. The sound is falling. The sky is a cloud. The days are beautiful. The sky is dust. The weather is yesterday. The weather is yesterday. The sound is weeping. What is this dust? The weather is nothing. The days are beautiful. The towers are yesterday. The towers are incidental. What are these ashes? Here is the hate That does not travel. Here is the robe That smells of the night Here are the words Retired to their books Here are the stones Loosed from their settings Here is the bridge Over the water Here is the place Where the sun came up Here is a season Dry in the fireplace. Here are the ashes. The days are beautiful.
Elegy for Sol LeWitt
The weather map today is pale. The lines on the map are like the casts of fishing lines looping and curved briefly across air. The sky now, also, toward evening, is pale. On Sunday, in Beacon, there were lines drawn on walls and also lines drawn across the canvases of the last paintings of Agnes Martin. One of them has two pale squares on a blackened field. The lines on your walls follows directions as if as if there were a kind of logic charged with motion at the end of winter: the pale blue northern cold almost merged with the pale green at Hartford, and then the blank newsprint of the sea.